


if my heart was a house (you'd be home)

by starlitfics



Series: ties that bind us (geraskier a/b/o family) [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Childbirth, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Newborn Children, Omega Jaskier | Dandelion, Parenthood, Pregnancy, Self-Indulgent, Tenderness, i can't believe i did this but i also did
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:54:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23585689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlitfics/pseuds/starlitfics
Summary: “So you promise me too, okay?” he breathes. “Promise that you won’t give up on me. On us. That no matter how scary it gets, or how much I yell at you, you’ll be there, ever at my side.”Which, Geralt thinks, was never in question — but he knows the words mean more to Jaskier than they do to him, so he leans up and kisses his forehead, murmuring against his skin. “I promise, Jaskier.”Jaskier pulls back and beams at him, his grin wide and coy.“Good. Now let’s kick labor’s arse, shall we?”A continuation oflove me like you, if you really squint. Along with life will often come pain, and if you really love someone, you'll work them through it. In which Geralt and Jaskier navigate through the arrival of their little one, as painful and scary as it may be.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: ties that bind us (geraskier a/b/o family) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1696555
Comments: 35
Kudos: 405





	if my heart was a house (you'd be home)

**Author's Note:**

> i'm kind of scared that i wrote 8k words for this. who am i.  
> but a few of you asked for it, so here it is - a (somewhat) continuation of my last fic, the arrival of jaskier and geralt's little one! i hope you're not expecting an actual plot, or for me to, like, know where they are... i don't think about logistics. i just think about fluffy and tender content.  
> also, this fic is a little grosser than the last one i wrote about childbirth, so... be warned, i guess! sometimes a little grossness is needed. tread carefully, if that sort of thing ain't your style!  
> happy reading!

When Geralt wakes, he knows immediately that something is wrong.

He isn’t sure if it’s the alpha or the witcher in him that catches it first, but all at once, he’s acutely aware of the sour smell of stress hanging heavy in the air. It’s an unnerving scent, especially as it mixes with the rosey sweet smell of his mate — and if that wasn’t enough to wrench him from his slumber, then surely the feeling of a hand harshly shaking his shoulder and a low voice hissing deep in his ear must be.

“Geralt,” it says. And then, more urgently, “ _Geralt._ Wake up.”

Geralt thinks that had this been any other time of day, he would have let Jaskier pester him for another minute or two before finally letting up. Perhaps it’s the hushed urgency with which his mate whispers his name, or simply the inexplicable alpha instincts that reside deep within his psyche — be it what it may, it wrenches any remnants of sleep harshly out of Geralt’s mind. 

Slowly, the alpha pushes himself up onto his forearms, blearily rubbing his eyes with the butt of his palm. When his gaze finally settles on his mate, Geralt is struck not for the first time by the vividness of Jaskier’s cornflower blues. They, too, are clouded over with sleep, but there’s an uncomfortable sense of stress looming beneath their surface. Instinctively, one of his hands reaches out, his thumb ghosting over Jaskier’s cheekbone.

Geralt’s voice is low and husky with drowsiness, but gentle all the same. “What’s wrong?”

Even in the darkness, Geralt can see Jaskier’s lips pull into a fond smile. The way his mate has relaxed under his touch is not lost on him — he gives his omega’s cheek another soft caress with the pad of his thumb, for good measure.

Geralt is still acutely aware of the tension in the room, and he steels himself for what is to come. It’s not enough, however, to prepare him for the set of words that roll gently off Jaskier’s tongue.

“I think I’m having contractions,” he whispers. And then, after a pause; “Real ones.”

Which really _shouldn’t_ be a surprise — Jaskier has been restless for days, complaining of new aches and pains as the end of his pregnancy draws ever closer. He’s not technically due for another two weeks, but it’s not as if either of them were expecting their little one to wait for much longer. Jaskier has been jesting for months that they’re an impatient little thing — which, considering their parentage, Geralt is hard pressed to agree with.

Even so, the notion that the time might be _now_ strikes up a strange, primal feeling deep within the pits of Geralt’s stomach. It’s not quite fear, but it’s the closest he’s come to it in a very long time. On the other hand, the high, sour smell of anxiety is clear as day in Jaskier’s scent, and the shaky smile at his lips is far from convincing. Geralt lets his hand wander across Jaskier’s face, his fingers gently tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.

“How far apart?” he asks eventually. His voice is low, but not quite as steady as he’d hoped — even so, he can feel it as Jaskier relaxes against his palm.

“Fifteen minutes,” he says, offering a small shrug. One of his hands, Geralt notices, has come to rest gently atop the swell of his stomach. “maybe a little longer. I woke up to one, which was not the kindest of wake up calls, let me tell you. I was just about to fall asleep, too, and then there was another.”

Geralt _hmms._ “Two contractions doesn’t mean you’re in labor.”

Jaskier huffs, a slight frown tugging at his lips. 

“No, I suppose it doesn’t,” he admits. “but… I don’t know. I can’t explain it, really, it just — it feels different, somehow. It feels real.”

Geralt clicks his tongue, letting his knuckles gently graze the skin of Jaskier’s cheekbone. He couldn’t even begin to count the things that feel _different,_ these days. It seems that at every step of the way, there’s something new to discover — if not about himself, then about his mate. Jaskier insists that it is part and parcel of fatherhood; when Geralt reminds him that they’re not fathers quite yet, he gets a pinch to his forearm.

But… he digresses. As much as he knows that instinct alone is not always enough, it seems to rule the both of them, these days. They’re more in tune with each other than they’ve ever been — and if Jaskier’s instincts are saying that this is real, then Geralt is hard pressed to believe him.

“We’ll stay up another hour,” he offers. Someone has to be the reasonable one; if they stay awake all night for another false alarm, Geralt doesn’t think he’ll ever hear the end of it. “If your contractions are steady, we’ll call it real. If not, we’ll go back to sleep.”

Jaskier seems to think about it for a moment. Eventually he nods, turning his head and pressing a soft kiss against Geralt’s palm. 

“It looks as if we have a deal, my dear witcher,” he says, a coy smile gracing his lips. He seems satisfied, or perhaps relieved — maybe both. “Well, if we’re going to be up for the next hour, how about you make yourself useful and draw your dear omega a bath? My back is killing me.”

And, well. Geralt isn’t sure why he expected anything less.

Yet he finds himself sliding out of bed all the same, giving Jaskier a brief kiss to the forehead before he leaves. The washroom is just one room over, and it's proven itself to be an incredible asset to Jaskier when navigating the strange aches and pains of pregnancy. In hindsight, Geralt thinks he should regret letting Jaskier figure out that a hot bath is just a simple Igni spell away — but the look of pure, contented bliss that never fails to cross the bard’s face when he sinks into the water is a good enough reward for all that pestering, he supposes.

Geralt is just about finished filling up the basin with water when he hears Jaskier curse under his breath from the other room. Another contraction, he wagers, and is proven right as Jaskier’s scent begins to mingle with the sour notes of stress and pain. He hears a slow, deliberate inhale, and is briefly comforted by Jaskier’s instincts to breathe through the pain — until suddenly, the omega’s breath catches on a strangled gasp, and Jaskier’s scent spikes with fear.

“ _Geralt!_ ”

And Geralt isn’t quite sure what gets to him first; whether it’s the urgency in Jaskier’s voice, the terror in his scent, or the inexplicable instincts of his inner alpha, he doesn’t know for sure. Be it what it may, it pulls him out of the washroom and back to the bedroom in the blink of an eye, rushing him to discern the cause of his omega’s distress.

Jaskier is standing at the foot of the bed, one hand splayed atop his stomach and the other in a white-knuckled grip on the bedpost. His eyes are wide, shining with something Geralt can’t quite place as he stares down at his trembling legs. Geralt notices, even through the darkness, that there’s a growing spot of darkness seeping through the hem of Jaskier’s nightshirt. And if that wasn’t enough to put the pieces together, then surely the sight of something slick running down the inside of his mate’s thighs is.

Jaskier glances up, meets his gaze — and despite it all, he flashes Geralt a sly, albeit shaky, grin.

“Well, I suppose we’ve gotten our answer,” he muses, “they are real contractions.”

Geralt, in response, can offer nothing but an incredulous shake of his head. 

He unbuttons Jaskier’s nightshirt for him, as the bard is still trembling, despite the coy smile at his lips. Geralt slips the shirt off his shoulders with ease, tossing the soiled garment to the side. Jaskier takes another hesitant look beneath them, and wrinkles his nose at the wetness coating his thighs and the growing pool of amniotic fluid on their hardwood floor.

“Sweet Melitele, that is _disgusting,_ ” he says, expression twisting into a grimace. “You couldn’t have at least waited until I was in the bath, little one?”

Geralt hums. “It could be worse. We could have carpets.”

Jaskier shudders again.

Geralt guides him slowly to the bath, keeping him steady as he eases himself into the hot water. Relief crosses his face almost immediately, and the omega lets out a long, heaving sigh as he settles against the walls of the bath. One of his arms is laid across his belly, the other hanging idly off the side of the tub — his fingers reach out, grabbing blindly, and Geralt takes his hand between both his own as he kneels at his side.

Jaskier looks comfortable, almost annoyingly so — but Geralt knows that it’s not going to last. Now that his water has broken, the pains are only going to get stronger, the wait only going to become more unbearable. And while Geralt may believe in his mate with every fiber of his being, he knows all too well that the laws of the world don’t give a damn about the likes of faith. Faith doesn’t solve a stillbirth, or a hemorrhage, or any of the countless things that could rip Jaskier or their child away in an instant. 

Jaskier, ever the perceptive soul, seems to catch onto Geralt’s silent, brooding worries. Geralt feels his fingers lace in between his own — when he looks up, Jaskier is frowning at him through a knowing gaze.

“You’re nervous.”

Which, Geralt thinks, should hardly be surprising. So he says simply, “Hmm.”

It’s not the answer Jaskier was looking for, if the subtle crinkle of his nose is any indication. He lets out a puff of air from between his teeth.

“Oh, don’t you start being all brooding and witcher-y,” he warns, narrowing his gaze. “We’re in for a long night, the two of us, and I’ll not let this weigh on you the whole time. Now do your poor, laboring omega a favor and open up, won’t you?”

But Geralt just shuts his eyes, exhaling sharply through his nose. He can feel Jaskier’s gaze soften as he slips his hand out of Geralt’s grip and rests his palm gently on his shoulder.

“Geralt, love…” he murmurs, “talk to me, please. What’s wrong?”

Geralt feels his face tighten. He doesn’t open his eyes, but he does respond, his voice low and careful.

“When I spoke with Nennenke,” he says, “she taught me the basics of delivering a babe.”

Which she had — it had been a bloody, messy ordeal, but one that had left Geralt with more knowledge regarding the world of childbirth than he ever thought he needed. Jaskier makes an understanding noise.

“I remember, yes.” 

Geralt licks his lips, not quite sure how to continue. “She also warned me that childbirth is a finicky thing. Complications are… sudden. Should they arise…”

His sentence trails off, but the implications hang heavy in the air between them. Jaskier squeezes his shoulder gently.

“You’re worried you’ll lose me,” he whispers, “or both of us.”

Geralt says nothing. There is a brief, deafening moment of silence, before Geralt feels Jaskier’s hand move so that his knuckles are ghosting against the skin of the witcher’s cheek.

“My darling, stupid witcher… look at me, won’t you?”

And Geralt’s not sure if he can, but he turns his head back and opens his eyes all the same. When their eyes meet, amber and blue locking together, Geralt is struck not for the first time with such a powerful feeling of _home_ that he’s almost overwhelmed. Somehow, it does little to quell his worries.

“It’s not like I’m not scared either,” says Jaskier. His gaze is so achingly honest and tender that it makes Geralt’s heart tighten in his chest. “Melitele’s tits, Geralt, I’m about to have a _baby._ A whole bloody person, relying on me to bring them safely and soundly into the world. That’s terrifying. We’ve fought monsters, we’ve traveled the continent — hell, we’ve even faced the most ruthless battle of all; politics. And yet… this may very well be the scariest thing we’ve ever done.”

“Are you trying to be reassuring?” Geralt asks, though it lacks any of the bite that would have made it harsh. Jaskier huffs.

“If we only focus on how scared we are,” he continues, “we’ll lose sight of everything else. Geralt, love, we’ve waited so long for this. And the moment’s finally here!” Jaskier lets out a breathy laugh, stroking his thumb across Geralt’s cheekbone. “Yes, it’s scary, and it’s bloody, and it’s disgusting — but it’s only going to happen once. Our little one only gets one entrance into this world. It’s up to us to give them what they deserve.”

Geralt gives the swell of his omega’s stomach a sideward glance. Slowly, he dips one of his hands into the water and lets his palm lay flat against the taut skin, still thrumming with life even now. Jaskier smiles.

“They call it a miracle for a reason,” he says, “and even if I scream myself hoarse, or threaten to throttle your stupid witcher neck, I’m not going to give up. I promise, Geralt.”

Once more, Geralt says nothing — this time leaning in to press a warm, chaste kiss to Jaskier’s lips. He feels his mate smile against him, his breath warm and comforting against Geralt’s face.

“So you promise me too, okay?” he breathes. “Promise that you won’t give up on me. On us. That no matter how scary it gets, or how much I yell at you, you’ll be there, ever at my side.”

Which, Geralt thinks, was never in question — but he knows the words mean more to Jaskier than they do to him, so he leans up and kisses his forehead, murmuring against his skin. “I promise, Jaskier.”

Jaskier pulls back and beams at him, his grin wide and coy.

“Good. Now let’s kick labor’s arse, shall we?”

* * *

By the time dawn rolls around, and the sun has just begun to peak over the horizon, they’ve settled into a semi-comfortable rhythm.

Jaskier, now clad in one of Geralt’s oversized shirts, is on his knees beside the bed, his arms folded atop the mattress. The side of his head is resting against his forearms, turned just enough that Geralt can see his face. In this lull between contractions, his eyes have fallen gently shut, his lips parted with slow, even breaths. He looks beautiful, somehow, even with hair splayed every which way and his face flushed with the beginnings of a fever. Geralt supposes he shouldn’t be surprised.

Geralt, all the while, is kneeling behind him, his palms resting firmly against the small of Jaskier’s back. His muscles still ache terribly, Geralt is sure — and while the warm weight of his hands won’t do much to tame it, it’s better than nothing. It serves also as a constant reminder of his presence — ever at his side, just as he promised.

Jaskier shifts uncomfortably in front of him, his face twisting into a harsh grimace. A soft noise of pain escapes him, and he turns to bury his forehead against his arms just as it shifts into a low groan.

“Son of a _bitch,_ ” he hisses, muffled through his teeth. Geralt leans closer, humming in disapproval when he sees that the rise and fall of his omega’s breathing has gone still.

“Don’t hold your breath,” he murmurs. Jaskier groans again.

“I’m _trying,_ you — nngh…”

His retort gets caught on another low, pained noise. There’s not much more Geralt can say, so he does what he knows best — he leans forward and nudges his nose firmly against Jaskier’s mating bite, scenting him thoroughly through a deep inhale.

“Just breathe, Jaskier,” he whispers, his voice low against his mate’s feverish skin. “With me, if it helps.”

And they do — they breathe in tandem, in through the nose, out through the mouth, with Geralt’s nose to the crook of Jaskier’s neck all the while. When the pain finally ebbs away, the tension leaves Jaskier’s body with a shuddering exhale, his head once again turning to the side.

“Fuck,” he gasps, “that was… well. A lot.”

Geralt just hums, gives a soft kiss to Jaskier’s neck. “They were bound to get worse, after your water broke. It’s progress.”

“Slow, steady, and positively agonizing,” sighs Jaskier. “At this rate, we’ll see the sun come up and go back down, before we actually have a baby to show for it.” He shoots his belly a half-hearted accusatory glare. “You couldn’t have let us get just a few more hours of rest, little one?”

Geralt lets one of his hands trail across Jaskier’s skin so he can lay his palm just below his navel.

“They’re impatient. Like someone I know.”

Jaskier huffs, but Geralt can see a smile tugging at his lips. “Oh, you had better watch that mouth of yours, witcher. _I’m_ the one in labor with your babe.”

“Hmm.”

They settle into a comfortable, familiar silence — one that Geralt is sure won’t last for very long. Sure enough, not ten minutes later, Jaskier’s shoulders stiffen as another contraction builds, and he hisses out an exhale through his teeth. 

“Geralt —” 

But Geralt is already leaning forward, pressing his nose to the same spot against the crook of Jaskier’s neck and scenting him. “I’m here.”

Surrounded by his alpha’s scent, Jaskier is able to breathe through the rest of the pain, slow and deep. When it finally ends, Geralt can practically feel him deflate in his arms.

“Good lord,” he sighs. “I knew this wasn’t going to be easy, but…” 

Geralt presses a kiss to the back of his neck. “You’ll be fine. You’ve managed worse.”

Jaskier laughs, albeit dryly. “I’m not sure I’d liken being cursed by a djinn to having a baby, but I appreciate it, I think.”

Jaskier shifts, moving to rest his chin upon his arms. For a moment, he’s silent, simply staring at nothing in particular through a tired gaze — but when he does speak, his voice is low, quiet, and uncharacteristically serious.

“It’s going to get worse, isn’t it?”

Geralt pauses. Then, carefully; “Yes.”

“How much worse?”

“Hard to say.”

Which is true, but not entirely because Geralt isn’t sure of the answer. He knows that the closer they get to the arrival of their babe, the more agonizing Jaskier’s pain will be. It’s a cruel trade, really, for it to take so much pain to bring a life into the world. Geralt isn’t sure he’ll ever understand it, not fully.

With a sigh, Jaskier leans back onto his heels, his arms sliding off the bed to fold atop the curve of his belly. When he looks over his shoulder, Geralt is struck by the vividness of his cornflower blues as they come alive under the light of a new day. Even with the pain and anxiety swimming beneath them, they’re still one of the most brilliant feats Geralt has ever beheld.

“Don’t give up on me, okay?” Jaskier says, his voice hardly above a whisper. “I know I’m a bloody nightmare when it comes to being in pain, but… I know I can do this, if it’s with you. No matter how bad it gets. So long as it’s with you…”

And Geralt, despite it all, can do nothing but believe him. He leans past Jaskier’s shoulder and gives his lips a brief, chaste kiss.

“Ever at your side,” he whispers. Jaskier says nothing, but he does smile, his eyes twinkling with mirth, and that is more than enough.

* * *

When midday gives way to a sunny afternoon, the intensity of his contractions reach such a peak that Jaskier throws his head out the window, curls over, and vomits. If Geralt’s instincts were urging him to protect his mate before, they’re all but screaming at him now.

They settle carefully atop their bed, Geralt guiding the omega all the while. Jaskier is on his knees, his weight balanced on his heels, with Geralt sitting carefully in front of him. He realizes as he takes Jaskier into his arms that he’s trembling, still reeling from the force of the contraction, and it does little to quell the nerves still tugging harshly at Geralt’s heartstrings.

And yet he remains steadfast, a steady weight for his mate to rely on. Jaskier is quick to bury his nose against the crook of Geralt’s neck, surrounding himself in the familiar, comforting scent of love and home. Geralt, meanwhile, holds his love firmly yet tenderly in his arms — one arm secure around his waist, and the other with a hand gently cupping the back of his head, tangling his fingers in the mess of sweaty hair. 

They sit there for what feels like an eternity, Geralt carding his fingers through Jaskier’s brown curls as the omega slowly fights to halt the shaking of his breath and body. Sadly, the moment he seems to finally take control, another contraction is upon him — Geralt can tell in an instant, if not by the way Jaskier tenses in his arms, then how his scent spikes with fear and agony. 

Jaskier shifts uncomfortably in his alpha’s embrace. Geralt feels him take in a sharp breath through his teeth, but he is unable to keep back the low moan of pain that escapes his lips through an exhale. His grip on the back of Geralt’s shirt tightens, and Geralt’s heart squeezes harshly in his chest. As if that wasn’t enough, he is suddenly acutely aware of a warmth against his neck, as Jaskier tries without much success to blink back hot, heavy tears. When he breathes again, the inhale catches as a choked gasp in his throat.

“ _Geralt —_ ” is all he can manage to say, and it is so akin to a plea that Geralt swears he can feel his heart stop in his chest. He wishes, not for the first time, that he was better with words — that he could lean in close to his mate’s ear and whisper the comforts and encouragements that Jaskier so desperately needs. 

But Geralt is a man of action, not poetry, so there is not much he can do but act. It is carefully that he cranes his neck to the side, leaning forward and softly pressing his lips against the white scar of the bite mark on Jaskier’s neck. He feels his mate begin to still in his arms, so he continues — taking the soft skin between his teeth and _biting,_ ever so gently. 

Jaskier lets out a small noise of surprise before melting completely against his alpha’s touch. Even without words, Geralt knows he can tell what he is trying to get across — _I’m here. I’ll always be here. I love you._

Slowly, Jaskier’s white-knuckled grip on the fabric of Geralt’s shirt lessens. He takes in a long, steady inhale, and then breathes out a low sigh of relief. When Jaskier moves to sit back on his heels, Geralt can see that there are still tears shining at the corners of his eyes — but there is a smile on his face either way.

“Thank you,” he says. His voice is soft, and a little sheepish, but genuine all the same. “thank you. I… fuck, I don’t know what that was. Besides disgusting, anyhow, and a little embarrassing.”

Geralt hums, leaning forward to press a brief kiss to Jaskier’s lips.

“You’re in pain,” he offers. “it’s all right to show it.”

To that, Jaskier frowns. His palms come up to rest instinctively atop his belly.

“I know,” he sighs. His eyes look so very tired beneath the midday light, the sleeplessness and the agony catching up with him seemingly all at once. “I just… didn’t think I’d be quite this dreadful at it, I suppose.”

Geralt untangles his hand from its place among Jaskier’s mess of curls so that he can brush his knuckles along the feverish skin of the omega’s cheek. Even such a simple touch is enough to soften the look in Jaskier’s eyes to something much more tender, his fingers lifting to curl gently around Geralt’s palm.

“It won’t be much longer, now,” Geralt murmurs, pressing a kiss between Jaskier’s eyes. “Just think of what we’ll have to show for it, once it’s done.”

Jaskier’s expression breaks into a warm smile.

“And baby makes three,” he muses, tugging Geralt’s hand from his cheek down to rest upon his belly. “or so the saying goes. We’ll be a right and proper family soon, won’t we?”

Geralt just hums, flattening his palm against Jaskier’s navel. He thinks, really, that they already are.

* * *

By sunset, Jaskier has gotten so feverish that he’s abandoned his shirt entirely, opting instead to hope that the night air against his bare skin will ease his discomfort somewhat. Geralt is struck by just how _low_ the swell of his belly seems to have gotten, and it hits him not for the first time that they’re so very, very close.

Once more, they’ve settled against the bed, both of them too tired to kneel or stand for much longer. Geralt is seated with his back to the headboard, legs spread wide to accommodate for his mate lying between them. Jaskier has taken to leaning most of his weight against Geralt’s chest, the back of his head resting against his alpha’s shoulder. Their hands are laced together, laying idly against the bed so that Jaskier is free to grip Geralt’s palms whenever he sees fit. The omega’s heels, too, are tucked under Geralt’s calves, hoping to spread his legs enough to ease the pressure in his pelvis that seems to have grown unbearable.

By now, the contractions are no longer frightening, but every pain draws out a long, wrenching groan from Jaskier’s lips. Every time, he keens his head back against Geralt’s shoulder, panting into his ear — and every time, Geralt gives a chaste kiss to the side of his face, encouraging him without words. Even Jaskier seems to have run out of things to say, as impossible as it sounds — all of their declarations of love and support rest comfortably in every squeeze of the hand, every sideways kiss, every exhale of relief. Their bond may be unspoken, in this moment, but it is stronger than it’s ever been.

Geralt’s not quite sure how long it’s been, when something in the room shifts, but he knows for certain that both of them feel it at the same time. It comes with the rise of another contraction — but instead of a low moan of pain, what draws forth from Jaskier’s lips is a strangled gasp. He takes Geralt’s hands into a white-knuckled grip, shifting uncomfortably in his arms.

“Geralt,” he gasps, eyes suddenly wide with fear and something else Geralt can’t quite place. “Geralt, I — fuck, _fuck,_ I need — I think I need to —”

His voice trails off, but it’s not as if Geralt doesn’t know what he means. It’s not as if he can’t _feel_ it, a deep, inexplicable instinct buried within his very core. _It’s time._

It’s probably the most terrifying revelation he’s ever come to — and somehow, the most exciting. They’ve waited so long, come so damn far, and the moment is finally here, dangling right in front of them. Geralt squeezes his hands.

“Go ahead,” he murmurs. “I’m here with you.”

Jaskier just nods his head, taking in another gasp of air.

“Okay. Okay. This is — fuck, this is fine,” he says, somehow managing a shaky laugh despite it all. “Yup. Perfectly fine. Just — just having a baby. Yup.”

The pain seems to finally reach its peak — and after a moment's hesitation, Jaskier tucks his chin to his chest, squeezes his eyes shut, and _pushes._ He holds it for a few seconds, then takes another gasp of air, and holds it again until the pain fades away. When it does, he lets out a heavy exhale, chest heaving with effort as he tries to find his breathing again.

The contractions are as close as ever now, so it’s hardly a minute before Jaskier’s body goes rigid with effort yet again. Halfway through, he lets out a hissing exhale through his teeth, his nails digging harshly into Geralt’s palms.

“Shit. Shit, shit, _shit,_ ” he hisses, finally letting out a shuddering breath. “Good lord, Geralt, you are _never_ doing this to me again.”

Geralt just gives his hands a gentle squeeze. “Noted.”

They settle into a rhythm after that, Jaskier concentrating all his focus on the slow, agonizing arrival of their babe. Every so often, he lets out a hissing curse under his breath, often aimed at Geralt — who, of course, says nothing. Now is not the time to be pressing his luck.

At some point, Jaskier wiggles his fingers out of Geralt’s grip, instead dipping his hands between his legs where Geralt can’t see. Geralt wonders, briefly, what there is for Jaskier to feel — a question that is answered just after Jaskier’s next burst of effort, when a strangled gasp wrenches itself from the omega’s lips.

“Geralt!” he gasps. His voice is breathless and thick with emotion. “Oh, sweet Melitele, I — holy shit, Geralt, I — that’s their _head._ In — In my hands.”

Geralt’s heart goes tight in his chest. Gently, he rests his hands on the omega’s hips, placing a kiss to the side of his neck.

“Not much more to go, then,” he murmurs. “Keep going, Jaskier. I’ve got you.”

“I know,” whispers Jaskier. “I — I love you. And I don’t think I want you to let me go _ever,_ but I —” he offers a small, shaky smile. “I want you to catch them. Or — both of us, rather.”

To which Geralt has no response that he thinks would be adequate enough, so he simply tilts his head up and kisses Jaskier instead.

“Come on now, hurry up,” Jaskier urges once they pull apart. “I don’t think they’ll wait much longer. Let’s have a baby, shall we?”

Jaskier is practically beaming at him, despite it all, so there is nothing Geralt can do but comply. Swiftly, he slides himself out from behind his mate, moving instead to kneel on the mattress in front of him.

Sure enough, when he lets his eyes settle between Jaskier’s legs, the sight that meets him twists his heart harshly in his chest. Their baby’s head is cradled gently within the omega’s palms — Geralt can’t see much but a mess of slick, dark hair, but it’s enough to send a surge of emotion through him.

Ever so slowly, he cups his hands underneath his mate’s. This time, when Jaskier bears down, he can _feel_ the progress being made, and it makes his heart swell deep in his chest. 

“They’ve got hair, Jask,” he murmurs. Jaskier beams at him.

“Oh, I _know._ Loads of it,” he muses. “I guess all that heartburn was worth something, huh?” Jaskier laughs — and then, in a softer voice, “What… What color is it?”

Geralt smiles at him, finally. “It’s brown.”

Jaskier laughs again, this time a little more wet than the last.

“Like mine? Or how yours used to be?”

Geralt clicks his tongue. “Hard to say. It’s just dark.” he rests one of his palms on the inside of Jaskier’s thigh. “How about you find out for yourself?”

Jaskier nods.

“Absolutely,” he agrees. “Come on, little one — I think it’s about time we ended this, yeah?”

Jaskier leans forward with the effort, grinding his teeth, and Geralt presses their brows together. His face is horribly scrunched and red-looking, hair plastered to his skin with sweat — and yet, somehow, Geralt thinks he must be the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.

“Geralt — _Geralt —_ ”

A few more seconds of effort, and then Jaskier lets out another shuddering exhale. Geralt glances down to see that the baby has begun to turn, a shoulder beginning to emerge. He leans in and gives Jaskier’s lips a chaste kiss.

“Almost,” he whispers, “you’re nearly there. One more, I think.”

“One more,” repeats Jaskier. “One more. Oh, the things I do for you, little one.”

Jaskier bears down with a renewed fervor. Geralt watches with bated breath as the little one slowly works themself free. 

“Geralt, they’re — fuck, fuck, they’re —!”

“They’re here,” Geralt says. Just as he does, the babe slips into their parents’ waiting palms, and suddenly it is all over.

Geralt is quick to lift the little body up from the dirty sheets and onto Jaskier’s bare chest. The moment the omega lays eyes on their little one, his cornflower blues go glassy with the threat of tears. Jaskier’s hands are trembling as they rest upon the baby’s back, cradling them close against his chest. For a brief moment, there is silence — but just as quickly as it came, it is gone, as the baby opens their mouth wide and lets out a piercing wail.

“Oh!” exclaims Jaskier, voice breathless and thick with an emotion that Geralt can’t quite place. “Oh, hi, hello… Well, it’s — it’s good to finally meet you, dear thing. Yes, hello, hello…” a tear finally slips its way down Jaskier’s cheek, but he lets out a breathy laugh all the same. “Good lord, you’re _loud,_ aren’t you?”

Geralt brings up a palm to cradle the back of their baby’s head — they feel impossibly small, when he holds them like this, and it only furthers that warm feeling in his chest.

“Just like someone I know,” he muses. He gives the baby a quick once over, and then, “It’s a girl, Jaskier.”

Jaskier laughs.

“A girl! A beautiful, loud little girl…” he murmurs, cradling her tiny, wet body against his chest. “Oh, you are little, aren’t you? How is it that you felt so heavy inside of me, and yet you’re so teeny tiny in my arms?”

Their daughter merely lets out another loud, fitful cry, her hands curled into tiny fists against her omega father’s chest. Geralt leans forward and brings his brow to rest against his mate’s.

“It’s a girl,” Jaskier says again, letting out a strange mix of a sob and a laugh. “We — we have a _daughter,_ Geralt.”

“That we do,” says Geralt. He brushes a thumb against a lock of her brown curls. “She screams like a banshee.”

Jaskier beams at their little girl, leaning down and pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“At least we know she’s got strong lungs,” he says, ghosting a finger across the baby’s cheek. “I suppose you’re angry with me, aren’t you, sweet thing? It’s so cold and bright out here… I can’t imagine you like it very much.”

Geralt hums. “She’ll learn to like it.”

“That she will,” Jaskier agrees. “Oh, my sweet little girl, you can’t even begin to imagine how much we love you. Even though you put my body through hell and back.”

Briefly, their eyes meet. Jaskier’s gaze is exhausted, his face stained with tears, but he radiates such a strong sense of love that Geralt cannot help but smile back.

“I just had a _baby,_ ” he whispers, sounding rightfully amazed. Geralt kisses his forehead.

“You did,” he says. He looks down at their little girl, still squirming and covered in blood and lord knows what else. “I’ll clean her up.”

Jaskier just nods, letting out a long exhale as his body relaxes against the pillows. He looks a little hesitant, when Geralt lifts the baby from off his chest, and the alpha makes a note to work as quickly as possible.

He makes quick work of the clean-up, tying off the cord and cutting it swiftly with a clean blade. Their little girl is still screaming and flailing her little limbs as Geralt wipes her down with a damp towel, clearly unhappy with the change in scenery and dead set on making it everyone’s problem. Like father, like daughter, he supposes.

Eventually, when she’s as clean as she’ll let herself get, Geralt wraps his daughter loosely in a baby blanket and brings her back over to her omega father. Jaskier smiles wide, making room for Geralt to sit beside him as his baby is placed gently upon his chest, his hands coming up to cradle her.

“Hello again, little flower,” he coos, tickling her nose with his fingertip. “You’re an awful lot prettier all cleaned up, aren’t you?”

The baby seems to finally be getting tired of crying, but she still looks dreadfully unimpressed with her current situation. Her face is scrunched up, her little nose wrinkling as she lets out a big, loud yawn. Jaskier looks down at her fondly, his eyes twinkling with something Geralt has never seen before.

“You’ve got my hair, haven’t you?” he asks, twirling a finger around a damp curl. “Those dusty brown little curls… I sort of hoped you’d have your Daddy’s snow white hair, but you’re so beautiful it’s kind of unfair, so I suppose I’ll let it slide.”

The baby, in response, gives another little yawn. Jaskier chuckles.

“Hmm… I think those are your lips, Geralt,” he says, tracing the little girl’s mouth with a gentle touch. “And the shape of your eyes. But that cute little button nose is from Papa, isn’t it, love?”

Jaskier lets out another laugh. When he turns and meets Geralt’s gaze, his eyes are glassy, yet filled with so much love and adoration that it’s almost tangible.

“We have a baby,” he whispers. Geralt leans forward and kisses him.

“She’s beautiful. You’re beautiful,” is all he can think to say, for it’s all he is sure of, in this moment. Jaskier snorts.

“I look like shit, but thanks.”

For a moment, there is nothing in either of their minds but pure and utter bliss. But then a look of discomfort crosses Jaskier’s face, and they seem to both be reminded at the same time that there’s an afterbirth to deal with.

“Mmm… I think that’s a contraction coming,” Jaskier sighs. “Can you take her?”

Geralt nods, gently lifting the baby up off of Jaskier’s chest and cradling her gently in his arms. From the bed, Jaskier shifts uncomfortably, a grimace coming to his face.

“Now this is going to be gross,” he shudders.

As Geralt sets their little girl down safely in her bassinet, he hears Jaskier’s breathing go still. There is a moment of silence, and then a gasp — and then the omega is bearing down again. Geralt, though still mostly entranced by the darling face of their newborn daughter, is somewhat perplexed. After all of that effort, should this really take more than one push?

More than two, even — after a brief pause, Geralt hears another strained noise of effort from behind him. Just as quickly as it comes, though, it is cut off by a strangled gasp.

“Geralt,” Jaskier calls, his voice uncharacteristically wary. “I don’t — I don’t think this is right.”

Geralt returns to the bedside, where he is met by an exhausted, perplexed-looking Jaskier, who looks up at him through a helpless gaze.

“This doesn’t — _nngh_ — this doesn’t feel right,” he says, shifting his hips uncomfortably. Geralt sits down on the mattress, nudging Jaskier’s thighs apart so he can better see what’s going on.

“I mean, I don’t know what it _should_ feel like,” Jaskier admits, dipping a hand between his legs, “but it kind of feels like —”

Suddenly, Jaskier’s hand goes still, his eyes flying wide open. Geralt glances at his fingertips, and in an instant, everything clicks into place, as he sees what Jaskier undoubtedly feels.

It’s a head.

“Oh, no,” Jaskier says, bringing his hand back up to grip tightly at the sheets. “No, no, _no._ Do _not_ tell me that this is what’s happening.”

“It is,” Geralt says, even though his mind is still swimming from the realization that there’s _another baby._ Jaskier scowls at him.

“Oh, I hate you. I absolutely fucking _despise_ you, you — “

His grip on the sheets goes white as another contraction starts to build. Hesitant as he may be, Jaskier is quick to listen to his instincts, dropping his chin to his chest and bearing down hard. When he finally lets out his breath, he looks up and glares at his alpha all over again.

“Geralt of Rivia,” he hisses, “if you put _two_ children in me, I am going to remove your stupid fucking alpha cock from your body.”

Geralt shakes his head, cupping his hands below the emerging head of their second babe.

“I’d love to see you pull that off,” he says. “Push, Jaskier.”

Jaskier groans. “Oh, you _did,_ didn’t you! You just can’t make anything easy for me, you son of a — _aagh…_ ”

Perhaps this one is smaller than the last, or maybe the process is easier the second time around — whatever the cause, it is with this burst of effort that the baby’s head slips into Geralt’s waiting palms. 

“The head is out,” is all he can say. Jaskier just groans again.

“I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you,” he says, his voice breathless. “ _Twins,_ Geralt. He spends twenty years saying he’s infertile and then he goes and knocks me up with _twins._ ”

“Destiny’s a bitch, isn’t she.”

Jaskier scowls. “You’re a bitch. And you had better believe you haven’t heard the end of this.”

Geralt believes him.

Perhaps the second one truly is easier, because it’s with only one more burst of effort on Jaskier’s part before there’s a baby cradled in Geralt’s palms. Jaskier’s chest is heaving with effort, but Geralt lifts the babe up and onto it all the same.

“There we are,” he murmurs. Again, he gives the little one a glance, and then, “a boy, Jaskier.”

Where there had been frustration in Jaskier’s eyes, as he looks down at his newborn son, there exists nothing but love, plain and simple. Again, he’s quickly to cradle the baby with shaking palms, a lopsided smile coming to his face.

“Oh — oh, good lord,” he gasps, bringing the little boy closer. The baby’s mouth opens, but all that comes out is a small, wet cough. “Well, hello, little one. I suppose it’s no wonder your sister was so small — you were hiding in there with her, weren’t you?”

The baby makes another feeble attempt at a cry, but again, only manages to gurgle a quiet cough. Jaskier frowns, rubbing a hand gently up and down the boy’s back.

“Come on, now,” he urges, “breathe for me, baby boy.”

And with the help of his omega father’s coaxing, with another little cough, the baby finally lets out a cry. Jaskier flashes him a fond smile — Geralt lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“That’s it. There we go, love. A little quiet, but you’ve got the hang of it, haven’t you?”

Their son merely continues to cry, nestling himself further against the warmth of Jaskier’s chest. Geralt brings up a hand to cradle the back of the little boy’s head, smiling when he makes contact with the mess of damp curls.

“More brown hair, I see,” he muses. Jaskier hums, pressing a kiss to the baby’s forehead.

“But it’s darker,” he says, “and a little curlier. I think that’s your hair he’s got, Geralt.” Jaskier grins, tickling the baby’s button nose. “Is that right, darling? Do you look like your Daddy?”

The baby makes a soft noise of protest, to which Jaskier laughs. Geralt hums, tracing the little boy’s cheek with his fingertip.

“He has your face,” he says. “Your eyes, and your nose.”

“He’s perfect,” is all Jaskier says, a wide smile still at his lips. “They’re perfect. Melitele’s tits, Geralt, we just had _twins._ ”

“You just had twins.”

Jaskier’s grin turns coy. “Damn right I did.”

He gives their little boy another kiss to his forehead before letting out a long, heavy sigh.

“Make yourself useful and get him clean, would you? This has been absolutely disgusting, frankly.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything, but he’s hard pressed to agree.

Again, he makes quick work of cleaning up the babe to the best of his ability. Their son doesn’t fuss quite as much as his sister had, seemingly more confused with the ordeal than annoyed. They do have more than one blanket, thankfully, so Geralt is able to wrap the boy up before he brings him back to Jaskier.

When he does settle the baby on Jaskier’s chest, the omega immediately shifts him to one side, glancing over at the bassinet. “Get her too, won’t you?”

Geralt obliges, of course. He’s somewhat surprised, however, as he gathers his daughter into his arms, to see her little lashes flutter open, slowly revealing a hazy gaze of cornflower blues.

“Someone’s awake,” he murmurs as he rests the girl next to her brother atop Jaskier’s chest. It takes hardly a moment for the omega to notice the eyes staring back up at him, and he laughs.

“You really do look like me,” he murmurs, planting a kiss on her little nose, “don’t you, little flower?”

Their daughter just blinks at him, clearly unimpressed. Geralt doesn’t blame her.

When Geralt sits down next to him, Jaskier is quick to lean his head against his alpha’s shoulder. He looks down at their girl and boy with a fond gaze, letting out a small sigh.

“You two are going to be quite the handful, aren’t you?” he muses, resting a hand on each of their backs. “Not even an hour old, and you’ve already caused so much trouble.”

Geralt turns, pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s hair. “They’re ours, after all.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “I still can’t believe it, Geralt. We were hardly prepared for one baby, let alone _two._ We’ve only got one bassinet, and surely we’ll need more clothes, and —”

Geralt cuts him off with a brief kiss to his lips.

“Jaskier,” he sighs, “we’ll handle it.” 

Jaskier huffs. “I suppose we’ll have to.”

He turns his gaze back to their little ones. Their daughter is still staring up at the two of them through a judging blue gaze — their son, on the other hand, seems quiet content to keep his eyes hidden for the time being as he nuzzles up against his father’s chest.

“They’re remarkable, aren’t they?” says Jaskier, smiling down at the both of them. “You two are lucky that you’re brother and sister; if I had to spend another week picking out names, I would have been real cross with you.”

It had, of course, been Jaskier that had thought up the names for their child, firmly insisting that Geralt wasn’t nearly poetic enough to have a say in it. Which, honestly, Geralt could hardly argue with. He had kept the names under lock and key, though, insisting on keeping them to himself until the babe had arrived — and now, here they are.

“What did you pick?” Geralt asks. Jaskier frowns.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting to use them both at the same time,” he admits. “In hindsight, I suppose they’re rather similar…”

Geralt kisses his forehead. “I’m sure they’ll work. What are they?”

Jaskier just sighs, turning his gaze away. He rubs a thumb back and forth gently across their daughter’s back, looking fondly into her half-lidded gaze.

“Well, for a girl… I decided I’d like to name her Jessamine.”

Geralt hums, reaching a hand out to brush the little girl’s knuckles with a fingertip. She wrinkles her face at the touch.

“Not a flower,” Geralt muses. “I’m surprised.”

Jaskier flashes him a coy grin. “On the contrary, my dear witcher — it means jasmine. Which is a beautiful flower, mind you — one of love, and beauty, and strength. It’s a strong name, I think.” At that moment, the baby opens her little hand and wraps her fingers tightly around Geralt’s. Jaskier laughs. “Which seems to be just perfect for you, doesn’t it, darling?”

“Jessamine,” Geralt repeats. The name is foreign as it rolls off his tongue, but not uncomfortable.

“We could call her Jess, sometimes,” Jaskier says. “If she tolerates it. Do you like it?”

And if he’s to be honest, Geralt wasn’t sure if he would — but as he looks at their daughter now, he doesn’t think there’s any name that would fit in its place. He nods.

“And for him?”

Jaskier adjusts their son in his arms, the frown returning to his lips.

“Now, you’ll have to promise me, Geralt, that you won’t make fun of me.”

“I’ll try.”

Jaskier huffs, but his eyes are gentle as they gaze upon their little boy.

“I was thinking,” he whispers, ghosting a finger over their son’s cheek, “if we had a boy… we could name him Julian.”

“Julian,” Geralt repeats. Despite his promise, he arches a brow, earning himself another scoff from his mate. 

“I said not to make fun of me,” he says. “It’s not as if anyone calls me that anymore, so I’m hardly naming him after myself. And besides…”

Jaskier’s gaze softens. He leans down and presses a kiss to their son’s forehead.

“I wanted there to be somebody in my family,” he murmurs, “that could grow up and be proud to have that name.”

Which, Geralt thinks, is as good a reason to name your son after yourself as any. And he does have to agree — it’s hardly Jaskier’s namesake if he hasn’t used the name for the better part of two decades. Geralt pulls his finger away from Jessamine’s grip and instead traces the side of their son’s face.

“Julian,” he says again. It sounds better, this time. “It suits him, I think.”

Jaskier smiles. “Yes… it does, doesn’t it?”

They are similar names, Geralt has to admit, but as he looks at them now, he couldn’t imagine calling them anything else. Even now, after just hardly making their entrances into this world, their personalities are already beginning to shine through. Jessamine is a spitfire of a little girl, not afraid to make her qualms with the world vocal — and loud. Julian, on the other hand, seems much more content to sit back and let the world do as it pleases — so long as he’s in someone’s arms, that is.

Strange, to think that just an hour earlier, they hadn’t even known that there were two children on their way. And yet, now that they’re here, Geralt can hardly remember a world without them.

“Jessamine and Julian,” whispers Jaskier, “my darling girl and boy. Oh, I love you more than words could ever say.”

Geralt thinks, really, that there are no words that could say it properly. Leave it to Jaskier, though, to try — he’s sure his mate will spend the next week fussing over lyrics and poetics until he finds the perfect fit for their newborn little miracles.

For now, though, with his mate by his side and his family in his arms — for now, all is well.

**Author's Note:**

> enter j and j! originally i was hesitant to use my witcher fanchildren for the continuation of my last fic, since i never specified that they were twins, but... i guess an overused trope never hurt anybody! i love jess and julian too dearly to not use them. also, nobody bully me for naming him julian. i called him that once and it just stuck. i like to think that his family ends up using a lot of nicknames for him (jules, julie, julek, jem, etc)  
> ps, to anyone who was wondering; julian's eyes are brown :> he's like a mini geralt, just with softer features!  
> there are some hints earlier in the story that implies that there are twins, but my foreshadowing is usually pretty hard to find, so... i wouldn't be surprised if no one caught it. it was fun to include, though - i really enjoy stories where the narrator knows something the audience doesn't!  
> i also really enjoyed going back and forth between who was in need of comfort - love is a double-edged sword, and even though jaskier was the one in pain, i wanted to acknowledge that geralt was allowed to have his own worries and fears. i just... really like tenderness and fluff. but we knew that.  
> but... yeah! those are my geraskier kids, jess and julie! if you like them, or want to see more of them, i'd love to hear it - i love them dearly myself, eheh... i haven't written them much, but i've thought about them A Lot.  
> until next time! (｡´∀｀)ﾉ


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